SOMEWHERE IN THE USA
JUNE 30, 2022
The scene—an industrial cold storage facility. Boxes of STRONKUMMS stacked as far as the eye can see. An accountant goes crazy in the background, tossing receipts in the air joyously, smoking a celebratory cigar.
This is Big Money Meat Business.
And on Sunday they got business with a bitch boy named Kostoff.
STRONK and Shelley Greene step into frame.
For reference, both are wearing hot ice-blue pleather pants and white wifebeaters. Because they can. Shelley holds a wooden staff. Stronk an old-timey baseball bat.
Off in the distance, some Hall & Oates plays softly.
It’s real weird in this cold storage facility.
Greene steps forward, shittily twirls his bow staff or whatever it is. Clocks himself upside the head.
This won’t be a “collision of epicness”—whatever the hell that means. It’s not going to be competitive. It’s going to be Stronk FUCKING Daddy making you look like a dang-gum fool. Shit, boy, you’re nothin’; last on the list of guys we’ve been matched up against since stepping through the doors of this place.
You call Stronk the “special needs kid”—real classy, Kostoff, real classy. But a real athlete, a real once-in-a-generation talent, a freak of nature, doesn’t need to attend class to get straight A’s. Their destiny has been written in stone since peewee football, and that is winning—always and forever, accomplishing things you could probably only imagine when you’re two gram bags of meth deep, you ugly fuck.
You say you’re going to “rip you flesh off.” Uh, okay. Sure. You try that. When, uuh, was the last time you won anything around here? Do you have dirt on Lee Best? Does he keep you around as a punching bag because you’re too stupid to realize you’re what’s referred to as enhancement talent?
Has the meth fried your brain to the point where you actually believe you can be a contender? You are fresh meat to the grinder, you white trash bitch. You got that Goofy tooth look about you—about to pop into a can of tomato soup with that yellow chomper.
Now, you’re not the only space-taker-upper. There’s several untalented wastes of roster space in this fed, and bucko, you’re at the very bottom of that list. The fucking dirt worst, fucko. You’re going to get seriously hurt on Sunday, and STRONK is going to be fine. Unscathed.
Because you aren’t JJR.
You’re not Simon Sparrow.
You’re not that crazy fucker Geno-Cyde.
And you’re NOT Clay fucking Byrd!
You’re not even Darin fucking Zion. You’re just garbage, an easy win for the big fucking man.
You really should take a good long look in the mirror and ask yourself one simple question: “What in the ever-loving fuck am I doing here?” What is your purpose, you mush-mouth fuckhead? Because we’ll happily crush anyone put in front of us, but why does it have to be you? You look like you smell like bootleg cigs and the mouthwash that’s seeping through your dilated pores.
By the way, yours is the epitome of “trash” talk.
How drunk were you when you cut that first promo?
How ‘bout the second?
That’s it. That’s all the effort you get.
Lemme tag out to the LSD Champ.
YOU TRIED TO KILL PAPA BEST.
STRONK HAS BEEN VERY BURNT BUT STRONK IS NO LONGER BURNT. AND STRONK IS GOING TO MEET YOU IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RING AND INFLICT PAIN EQUAL TO OR GREATER THAN THE PAIN YOU INFLICTED ON PAPA BEST.
YOU ARE GOING TO BE ANNIHILATED AND TOSSED ABOUT AND MISUSED AND SOLD FOR CHEAP AND BOUGHT BACK AMD BEATEN ABOUT AND SET ASIDE AND BROUGHT BACK OUT AND POWERBOMBED THROUGH THE FUCKING FLOOOOOOOOOOOOOR!!!
STRONK’S FIRST MISSION AS LITERALLY THE SECRETARY OF DEFENSE:
STRONK AINT GOT NOTHING ELSE FOR THIS SHRIMP COCKTAIL. CUT IT.